“And this is happening now?”
Her certainty wavered. “I—I’m not sure. There was no way to tell.”
“A basement, maybe a warehouse. But you have no idea where?”
“No, I didn’t see anything but that room. And if Dinah knew where she was, it wasn’t something she was thinking about or feeling.” She paused, then said desperately, “I want to help her. You have to believe me about that. I have to try to help Dinah.”
“Why?” Bishop’s voice was flat.
Faith felt the burning of tears but refused to shed them before these men. She drew a steadying breath. “Because she’s my friend. Because she did everything in her power to make sure I could get my life back on track when I woke up. And because … she’s all I have.”
“I suppose,” he said, watching her, “that’s a good reason to want to help find her. And maybe gratitude as well. After all, she did settle half a million dollars on you.”
Faith shook her head. “Not half a million directly to me. The trust fund she set up is worth a little more than two hundred thousand dollars, according to the lawyer. And there was a fifty-thousand-dollar deposit directly into my checking account. But she arranged to pay my current debts and the hospital bill, and I have no idea how much that was altogether.”
“You didn’t have insurance?”
“Liability on the car, according to the paperwork I found. But no health insurance. I gather I had changed jobs recently, and the new coverage hadn’t begun yet.”
“Six weeks in a coma,” Bishop mused. “Another three weeks of care and physical therapy. In a good hospital. I’d say that could easily run a quarter million, maybe more.”
“One of the things I want to ask her,” Faith said, “is why. I don’t understand why she would do such a thing.”
Kane stirred and spoke, his voice raspy. “Because she felt guilty.”
“About what? The accident? They told me it was only my car and my fault. No one else was involved. So why would she feel guilty about that?” Faith was relieved to see that he had regained a bit of color and that he no longer looked so stunned.
“We were wondering the same thing,” he told her.
Bishop said, “What caused the accident?”
“Me, apparently.” She tried and failed to smile. “The doctor said it was … a few drinks on top of a prescription muscle relaxant. He said the combination was toxic and that I don’t handle alcohol very well.”
“Why were you prescribed muscle relaxants?” Kane asked, making a visible effort to be methodical.
“I don’t remember. Obviously.”
He frowned. “You didn’t have the prescription bottle with you?”
Her purse had been with her other things at the hospital. It had contained the usual items—a billfold, a checkbook, a small, unused spiral-ringed notebook, a couple of pens, and a compact and lipstick.
No prescription bottle of any kind. And there wasn’t one in the apartment.
Slowly, she said, “Maybe the police took it as evidence.”
Kane was still frowning. “Alcohol. That isn’t right. Dinah said you were on your way to meet her for drinks after work. But you never made it. And you’d come straight from work—that’s what she said.”
“So,” Bishop said, “unless you make it a habit to keep a bottle at work in a desk drawer …”
She blinked. “I doubt it. There’s no alcohol of any kind in my apartment.”
Kane saw her swallow convulsively, and when her eyes fixed on his face, there was fear in them. “What?” he demanded.
“Somebody broke into my apartment.” She spoke very carefully now. “The funny thing is, nothing was stolen. Not that I have any way of knowing for sure, but the police said the usual things weren’t taken. The place was turned upside down, though. Drawers emptied, things tossed about.”
“It sounds like a search,” Bishop said.
“When did this happen?” Kane asked.
“I’m not sure. I mean, it was discovered early in the week when the lawyer arranged to have a cleaning service come in and get the apartment ready for me.”
“When could it have happened?” Bishop asked. “Was anyone else in your apartment between the time of your accident and when the cleaning service discovered the break-in?”
Faith thought about it, reaching up to rub her forehead as though fretful. “I don’t think so. Except Dinah.”
“Dinah was there?”
“Her lawyer mentioned it. He said she had gone through my desk at home to find out what bills I had so they could be paid. That must have been just after the accident.” She was about to mention the missing laptop, but Kane was speaking and her wavering concentration lost the thought.
“So we have a span of weeks.” Kane looked at Bishop. “Great.”
Bishop’s mind was on something else. “The apartment was searched after Dinah went there to go through your desk.” His pale gaze was intent on her face. “And just a few weeks later, Dinah disappeared.”
Faith tried to make her mind focus on what he meant. “Are you saying that Dinah might have disappeared because someone thought she—she found something at my place? Something she wasn’t supposed to find?”
“Maybe.” He turned to Kane. “Maybe we’ve gone about this the wrong way. Maybe there was no direct threat to Dinah, no story someone wanted stopped before she could write it. Maybe it isn’t her past we should be looking into.”
“But mine,” Faith said shakily.
Kane realized suddenly that she was exhausted. It showed in her eyes, darkened with strain, and in the shadows beneath them. She was trying to sit up straight, but her shoulders kept slumping, and her skin was ashen. He was sure that if her hands hadn’t been clenched together in her lap, they would have been shaking uncontrollably.
“You need to get some rest,” he said.
Apologetic, she said, “I haven’t quite got my strength back yet. It hits me all at once and … and then I just need to sleep. I’m sorry.”
“For God’s sake, don’t be sorry. You’ve been through hell, and it’s understandable. Besides, you’ve told us things we didn’t know before. And you may be able to help us find Dinah.”
Bishop looked at him but said nothing.
“I want to,” she said again, then sighed. A shadow of fear crossed her face. “If—if you could call a cab for me …”
Kane’s hesitation was brief. “Look, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go back to your apartment, at least not tonight. Until we figure out what’s going on, until we’re sure that what happened to you and what happened to Dinah are unconnected, it’s better you stay with us.”
Color crept into her face. “I can’t stay here.”
“Of course you can.” He kept his voice matter-of-fact. “There are two bedrooms. Noah’s in one, you take mine. I’ll bunk down in here.” He grimaced. “These days, I’m usually in here most of the night anyway. Might as well get a pillow and blanket and make it official.”
She bit her lip in indecision, and Kane thought about how terrified she must be, so alone that even the face in her mirror was unfamiliar to her.
Gently, he said, “We’ll take it one day at a time, okay? Tonight, you need to sleep, and I think you’ll feel safer here than at your apartment. Tomorrow we’ll start trying to figure out what’s going on.”
Bishop said nothing.
Faith finally nodded. “Thank you.”
Kane showed her the way to his bedroom, made sure there were clean towels in the connecting bathroom. He invited her to use Dinah’s toilet articles but found one of his own shirts for her to sleep in rather than anything of Dinah’s; that was an intimacy he didn’t think either of them was ready for.
When he returned to the living room, he found Bishop sitting just where they’d left him, his frowning gaze fixed on the spot where Faith had been sitting.
Silently, Kane fixed drinks for them both, then reclaimed his place on the couch. “Do you believe h
er?” he asked abruptly.
“I don’t know. She could have told us what we wanted to hear.”
“I didn’t want to hear that Dinah’s being hurt.” Kane’s voice was very steady.
“No. But we might have expected something of the sort, if we’re honest about it. And it made for a dramatic telling, didn’t it? Virtually guaranteed to create an emotional reaction.”
“The details about the beach house—there’s no way she could have found those out. Except from Dinah.” Kane wasn’t ready to give up.
“Or from you.”
Kane frowned, then realized what his friend meant. “You mean she could have gotten them out of my mind as we were sitting here?”
“If she’s psychic, maybe. Just because she was able to block me doesn’t necessarily mean she can’t use her abilities at the same time.”
“Another psychic rule?” Kane asked wryly.
“Something like that.”
“Okay. I have to admit that’s possible. But there has to be a connection between Faith and Dinah, and what happened to both of them. Maybe the threat was against Faith—maybe she was into something dangerous and Dinah just stumbled into the situation. But Dinah clearly felt responsible for Faith’s accident, Noah. She felt guilty enough about it to spend a hell of a lot of money trying to fix things for Faith.”
Playing devil’s advocate, Bishop said, “But she apparently has a history of giving money to people in trouble. So how do we know her guilt was excessive? Maybe Faith merely represented … one more wounded soul she was trying to help.”
“Maybe. But whether Dinah’s story got Faith hurt or something in Faith’s life became dangerous to Dinah, the answer has to be there, between the two of them. Maybe she won’t be able to tell us much, but there are things we can find out. The facts of her accident, for one. What happened to the prescription drug she was supposedly taking and did a doctor actually prescribe it? How did she have a couple of drinks in her just minutes after leaving her job and going to meet Dinah?”
Kane’s face was hard with determination. “The police obviously chalked the crash up to a careless, intoxicated driver, so they wouldn’t have checked out the details. We can do that. We can do a background check on Faith and find out as much as possible about who she is. We can find out if Faith and Dinah were actually friends, if anyone saw them together or knew about the friendship. We can find out what Faith’s job involved, and whether it might have provided Dinah with information she was looking for, a story that might have gotten them both hurt. We can look for facts, Noah.”
After a moment, Bishop said, “So you’re convinced both Faith and Dinah were gotten out of the way because of a story Dinah was working on.”
“It’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s possible.”
“Then we have a lead,” Kane said, his voice sharp with anticipation.
“We have a lead,” Bishop agreed.
THREE
It was fairly early when Faith woke up, and she stared around the unfamiliar bedroom with absolutely no idea where she was. The panicked confusion was mercifully brief, but it left her feeling shaky.
That was a sensation she was very familiar with.
She took a shower, and it wasn’t until she was drying her hair with a blow dryer that she realized she had known exactly where it was in the linen closet, even though Kane hadn’t shown her the night before. Then, when she became conscious of her actions, the brush in her right hand suddenly felt clumsy and wrong, and she had to transfer it to her left.
“Left-handed,” she murmured. “I’m left-handed.” She had been using her left hand consistently since waking up in the hospital. So why had she used her right that morning?
It was probably one of the strange little glitches wrought by her coma, and she forced it from her mind. She got dressed, then made up the bed and neatened the room, leaving everything as she had found it. Finally, unable to postpone the moment any longer, she left the bedroom.
Kane was up. He was freshly shaved, his hair damp and his casual clothing unwrinkled. He was moving restlessly around the living room, and she doubted he had slept much if at all.
He paused near a lovely baby grand piano as soon as she appeared in the doorway, his awareness of her instant and his gaze sharp. “Good morning.” His voice, a little abrupt, was softened by a quick smile. “The coffee’s hot, and everything’s out on the counter. Fruit, bread, cereal. Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Faith went into the kitchen and busied herself. She was too aware of him for her peace of mind, especially when he came to the other side of the work island to pick up his coffee cup.
“I hope you slept well,” he offered conventionally.
Faith hesitated, then dropped a slice of bread into the toaster and said lightly, “I’ve slept a lot since coming out of the coma, but I’ve yet to sleep well. The doctors say it’s natural and nothing to worry about.”
“Bad dreams?”
“No, not that. Just … feelings. It’s hard to let myself go, to trust sleep. I’m afraid I won’t wake up, or that when I do, weeks or months will have passed. The doctors assure me that such a thing won’t happen, but of course the fear isn’t rational, and reassurances don’t help much. So, because I’m so afraid of not waking up, I tend to wake up often during the night.” She didn’t go on to describe the rushes of panic, the long minutes of calming herself down enough to sleep again.
“That must be hell,” Kane said with sympathy. “No wonder you—”
When he broke off, Faith said, “Jump whenever anyone says boo? Look like hell? Think I’m psychic? Or merely indulge in runaway paranoia?”
“I wasn’t going to say anything like that.” But instead of explaining, he changed the subject. “Noah and I have been talking, and we think the best thing is for you to stay here at least a few days. We need time to try to find some answers, and until we do that, we won’t know if you might be in as much danger as Dinah. So we’ll take you to your apartment today and you can pack a bag.”
“I can’t just take over your bedroom.” I can’t force myself into your life. I can’t do that. I don’t belong here. And you belong to Dinah. She concentrated on the tasks of spreading jelly on her toast and not looking at him.
“I told you, I’m not using it much anyway. And I’d feel better if you stayed here for a while, Faith.” He paused, then added, “Maybe that break-in at your apartment was just that, a random burglary. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it had something to do with Dinah and why she’s missing. I think you can help me find her.”
Faith’s restless night had done nothing to settle her emotions or clarify the confusion in her mind, and frustration was obvious in her voice. “How? I can’t even help myself. God knows I can’t remember anything helpful.”
“You might get your memory back, or at least some of it. In fact, you probably will.”
“But will it be in time to help Dinah?” she murmured, more to herself than to him. Before he could reply, she asked restlessly, “Where’s Bishop?”
“On the phone.” Kane paused, then added deliberately, “Checking into your background.”
That drew her eyes to his face, and she found him watching her intently. “Oh. I guess he can do that, can’t he.” It wasn’t a question.
Kane’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “Why do you say that?”
“He’s with the FBI, isn’t he?”
There was a moment of silence, then Kane said, “Neither of us mentioned that.”
“You didn’t?” Faith was startled, but quickly realized what the answer must be. “I suppose Dinah told me.” She shook her head. “It happens like that—right out of the blue, I just know things I can’t explain knowing. Either my memories are popping up here and there, or Dinah’s are. And since I never met you or Bishop before last night …” She returned her attention to her breakfast, unwilling to see disbelief or suspicion in his expression.
But Kane’s voice was neutral when he said,
“Do you mind that he’s checking into your background?”
Faith took the time to chew a bite of toast, then shook her head. “Why should I mind? Maybe he can even find out enough to answer a few of my questions.”
“Such as?”
“Such as … why there are no photographs in my apartment and almost no evidence of a—a past.”
“Some people don’t like clutter. Even the clutter of … visible memories. Maybe it’s only that.”
“Wouldn’t that be ironic,” she said. “If I’d kept out of my life the one thing that might help me remember my life.”
She drew a breath and looked at him steadily. “I’m twenty-eight years old, and there should be evidence of that life. Signs that I—that I lived those years. Photographs. A high school yearbook. A sweater my mother knit for me. But there’s nothing like that there. It’s as if I came from nowhere eighteen months ago when I moved into that apartment.”
“Everybody comes from somewhere, Faith. But maybe you chose to walk away from your past for some reason. People do. Go to a new place, start over.”
She toyed with the handle of her coffee cup, aware that the gesture betrayed her uneasiness but unable to stop herself. “Maybe that’s true. But what could have been so bad that I had to wipe out my past before I could start over?”
It was Bishop, coming into the kitchen at that moment, who replied to her question. “My guess would be murder.”
“Amnesia?”
“According to her file, yeah.” He scowled at a passerby, sending him on his way without stopping to wait for the phone, then he continued his conversation. “I got a look at the shrink’s report. Seems her whole life is a blank, not just the days or weeks before she rammed her car into that embankment.”
“Is it temporary or permanent?”
“Beats the hell out of me. And them, apparently. The gist of it is that nobody knows whether she’ll ever regain her memory. She could get it all back, some of it—or none of it. And there’s no telling how long it might take. She could wake up tomorrow remembering every detail.”